


saturate the atmosphere (wake me from a dream)

by Allegria23



Series: Morning is for Magicians [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, First Year First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Eliot Waugh, Personal Growth?, Porn with Feelings, Seemingly Endless Kissing, Sharing a Bed, Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 18:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegria23/pseuds/Allegria23
Summary: Quentin has a dream. Eliot may make some minor modifications to the aesthetic. Early first-year at Brakebills, getting-together with feelings au.





	saturate the atmosphere (wake me from a dream)

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, this has been done and it's been done _very well,_ (thank you, fic writers of my heart.) But, I'm one of those readers whose response to a story I love is to want to read another, slightly different version of _the same thing._ So.  
This story started out as porn and then discovered it had feelings. Yeah, that happens.

I.

Eliot throws absolutely legendary parties with Margo, where he mixes cocktails while smoking fine cigarettes in elegantly-patterned waistcoats and ties. He also studies, diligently but secretly. It’s important that being good at things appears effortless— like his artfully-curated wardrobe, or his hair— like he’s just that _ extra. _ Margo knows, but she keeps his secrets. Wonderful, beautiful Margo: the co-conspirator of his life. Eliot occasionally takes a boy to bed after one of their parties, but never lets them stick around long enough to get attached. It’s part of the aesthetic. 

Recently a small crack has appeared in Eliot’s fairly-flawless public persona, in the form of some startling, uncharacteristic reactions to Quentin Coldwater, who came tripping out of the bushes and into Eliot’s life, eyes wide and mouth open, only a few months back. 

Eliot _ likes _ Quentin, in more than a flavor-of-the-month sort of way; worse, he _ enjoys taking care of him_. It gives him a warm little feeling to slip Quentin’s shoes off and cover him with a blanket when he’s fallen asleep studying on the couch late at night, or make him a decent meal with actual vegetables in it, or rub his hands when they’re sore from practicing cantrips, reassuring him that learning magic is something he can do.

This had been embarrassing for a little while, if primarily to himself: there was nothing decadent or fabulous or sexy about doting on this earnest, fidgety, lovely but very high-maintenance little nerd. But Eliot’s’s coming to terms with it. Hedonism is also part of the aesthetic, he rationalizes: _enjoying things_. He can make it work.

Margo is less sure about that. “Look at you,” she’d said that first month, putting her arm around Eliot as he was sipping an early autumn gin fizz and watching out the window while Quentin read a book on the lawn, “mooning over that puppy. You’ll be carrying his books to class if you’re not careful, El.”

“I am not _ mooning, _ Bambi. Quentin needs… a little extra help adjusting to campus life,” he’d explained, airily. “I merely wish to be of service.”

“Mmmhmm,” she’d said, like she knew something he didn’t. “Make me one of those?”

“Of course.” 

It turns out that Margo likes Quentin too, and will occasionally include him in their little social bubble with far less teasing than Eliot would ordinarily expect of her. The two of them talk about Fillory, and the political allegories of Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and the _ graphic novels _ of Buffy, (which, the fuck, how is that even a thing?) She makes Quentin blush, which Eliot enjoys, and she gets to be a (very) secret nerd with him. Clearly a win-win.

“Do you think you’re ever going to stop cockblocking yourself with Coldwater?” Margo asks him a couple of months later, her voice sounding only mildly interested as she peruses _ Paris Vogue _ with her feet up on a pillow. 

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” he parries, as he carefully picks the hem out of a pair of winter-weight wool trousers, “my dear _ friend _ Quentin, about whom I _ care_, has evaded my every attempt to flirt with him, even when he’s been drunk. Do you remember when you tried to get him to talk about sex and he literally _ fled? _We don’t know whether he’s even queer, Bambi.”

Margo rolls her eyes in a way that would give a lesser mortal a headache. “Darling, I know you don’t want to scare the boy, but maybe you could grow a pair of tits and fucking _ ask him? _”

“Hmmmmm,” Eliot hums, noncommittally, and doesn’t.

So it goes on like that, for a while. It’s not as if Eliot doesn’t have a life. And if someone besides Margo notices him cuddling Q when he’s upset or making sure he eats or helping him study, they never say anything— so what does it matter, really? Cuteness aside, Eliot isn’t _ actively _ trying to get in his pants, having kind of decided that the best way to be close to Quentin is to _not _ give him an anxiety attack. Quite the opposite, if he’s honest.

II.

Apropos of this approach, it is on his way to bed from the bathroom on a regular school night, dressed in his pajamas and dressing gown, that Eliot notices Quentin’s door cracked and pops his head in to check on him. As probable distress signals go, it’s a pretty good one. 

Quentin is sitting on his bed in his pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, arms around his knees, and he’s rocking a bit. No Fillory book, so this is concerning.

“Hey Q,” Eliot leans through the doorway, “what’s going on?”

Quentin looks up from his knees and stops rocking. “Hey, El. Sorry, I’m um…” He cringes a little bit. “No, it’s dumb.”

Well, that won’t do. “Mind if I come in?”

“Yeah, okay.” 

Eliot closes the door behind him, settles on the bed right next to Quentin, and puts an arm around his shoulders. He feels the tension in his back and shoulders soften a bit, and looks at him expectantly. Quentin huffs out a soft laugh. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Care to talk about it?”

Quentin takes a minute to respond, his mouth pressed in a tense little line. “It’s just my dad and Julia, El.” He pushes his hands through his hair with a frustrated sigh. “They’re the two people I’m closest to in the whole world, and I have to lie to them. I’m… I’m not used to… _ being _like that.” 

Eliot… cannot relate to that, not really. Perhaps it doesn’t say the _ very _ best things about him that he has exactly _ one _ very best friend for whom he would do anything, and _ one… _ whatever Quentin is… and exactly _ no _ lifelong friends or family that he gives a fuck about_. _ But whatever. His story is different, and the point is that Quentin _ does. _

“Hey,” he tries, brushing Quentin’s long hair away from his eyes and tucking it behind his ear, “you’re not ‘like that.’ You’re loyal, Q… you’re honest… who you are hasn’t changed. If it had, this wouldn’t be bothering you.”

Quentin sniffs and nods. “Those relationships are never going to be the same, though. I’m… I’m lying to the people who love me about the basic nature of my _ life. _ Even aside from how much I hate that, I don’t know if they could ever forgive me even if they _ did _ find out. Or if they’d ever trust me again.” 

Eliot holds Quentin’s shoulders a little tighter, listening.

“El, I love magic. I really do.”

“I know you do, Q.” He does. This is a _ wonderful _ thing about Q.

“I don’t even… know how to explain. It’s just. It’s just that the… the price for it is… it’s really high.” 

Quentin buries his face in his knees again as he breaks down a little, and Eliot just holds him and gives him a few minutes. Eliot can respect that what Q is going through is real. He may not be the king of emotional acumen, exactly, but Quentin is clearly entitled to his feelings here.

“Hey,” he says, handing Quentin a tissue from the bedside table when he begins to unfold a bit, “so, you told me your dad read Harry Potter with you when you were a kid, right?” Q nods. “Well, don’t you think he’d understand, going to magic school and having to keep it a secret? I can’t imagine that he’d hold that against you, if he knows you.” 

Quentin looks up and smiles sadly. “You’re probably right. My dad would forgive me. He’d be so excited for me. But I’m still not supposed to tell him.”

“Well, what if you just… did?” Eliot asks, “What if you went home for a visit, and told him anyway. Then it would be a secret that you shared.”

“I couldn’t know that Brakebills wouldn’t find out, though, and I don’t know what they’d do if they did,” Quentin says, reasonably. “I don’t want to get kicked out, and I really don’t want to lose magic, or…” He looks at Eliot and swallows. 

“There have to be magicians who are married to Muggles who know about it, though,” Eliot interrupts, scrambling to think about this, “and some who have non-magic kids. I can’t imagine it would be that bad for your dad to know, there’s got to be some kind of exception for close family.”

“What, in the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy?” Quentin’s eyes crinkle in a wry smile as he bumps his shoulder teasingly into Eliot’s.

“Yeah, OR, I could just discreetly ask a few of the alums I know what they know about it, and see if I can dig up any stories about past students who broke the rules. Let me see what I can find out for you, okay?”

“Okay, wow, thank you,” and there it is, a genuine smile, even with dimples. How did Eliot ever get so… fond? Before he can figure out what to do with that, Quentin says, “I don’t think Julia could ever forgive me, though. We dreamed of magic together since we were little kids. This would break her heart.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, because that’s really all there is to say. 

Quentin leans into him, “I’m glad I have you, though.”

“And Margo,” Eliot corrects.

“Yes, and Margo. Even though she makes fun of my hair, like, all the time.”

Quentin is grinning. Eliot reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s silky and soft. “Fuck her. I like your hair,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Do you think you’re going to be okay? We should sleep.”

“Yeah, I think so. Would you stay?” They’ve done this before, several times. It’s not a big deal. What are friends for, after all.

“I’d be happy to. But you know I’ve been known to cuddle.”

“How will I survive?”

Eliot folds his dressing gown and sets it on Quentin’s dresser, then they climb into Quentin’s bed and Q turns off the bedside light. “Goodnight, El,” he says. He rolls over, and Eliot drapes an arm across his waist, like a very loose spoon. 

“Goodnight,” he murmurs. If the past is any indication, Quentin will be tightening these spoons right up as he falls asleep.

III.

Eliot wakes up when he feels an arm land across his chest. He’s in an unusual bed, with unusual sheets, at an odd hour, and it takes him a minute to remember where he is. Groggy, he relaxes as he recalls the previous evening, and is letting out a breath and closing his eyes when Quentin’s hand slides off his chest and he feels his fingers lace together with his own. 

Quentin’s curtains are open, and the dim pre-dawn light that suffuses the room gives everything a slight cast of cool bluish-grey as Eliot’s eyes adjust. He turns his head to look at Quentin and is surprised by what he sees. His hair spread out around his face; a soft, peaceful, slight smile on his lips; his eyes closed. Quentin is _ lovely _ in his sleep, and is holding Eliot’s hand, which… is decidedly not standard, for their friendship, as cuddly and touchy as they are. But if it’s what Q needs, he can do this. It’s nice, honestly, and the lapping wave of tender-feeling that’s washing over him a bit, well, he can hardly be blamed for that, what with the hand-holding. 

He’s sure it will pass. He can sleep while holding hands. It’s fine. 

Eliot rolls onto his side, facing Q, careful not to disturb their hands, and closes his eyes. He’s beginning to sink back into sleep sometime later when Quentin says his name. 

“Eliot.” It’s soft, sleepy.

“Mmmhmm?” Eliot asks, also soft.

“Eliot. mmmm. _ El.” _

Um, what?

Eliot opens his eyes. Quentin’s eyes are closed, but moving slightly under his lids. He’s still asleep. He’s talking is his sleep. He’s _ saying Eliot’s name… in his sleep. What the fuck?_

Quentin squeezes his hand as he sleeps, and Eliot wiggles a little to prop up on his elbow, the better to see this. Quentin’s brow is slightly pinched, and his mouth is a little open. _ “Eliot,” _ he whispers, and fucking _ wiggles_, and this is… startlingly erotic, definitely high on the list of the more erotic things Eliot has ever encountered. It catches him completely off guard. He glances down the bed and yep, the blanket is making a bit of a tent, down there. He sucks in a breath as his dick gives a very interested twitch. He is in Quentin’s bed, they are holding hands, and Quentin— his gentle, nerdy, adorable friend of entirely unconfirmed queerness status— appears to be having an erotic dream about him_. _

Eliot slides carefully back onto his back and looks at the ceiling. He needs a minute. This is not a bad surprise, by any means. A small smile curls over his lips as he feels Quentin squirm next to him. He has had erotic dreams about Quentin, but he never would have imagined that this was a mutual occurrence. It changes things, he realizes. There is potential here that he didn’t quite see before. The thought is exhilarating and a little frightening.

His heart is pounding a bit and he’s definitely aroused, here, but Q is asleep. Eliot feels a tiny bit guilty for intruding. He doesn’t want Quentin to wake up and panic or feel embarrassed. Holding his hand, Eliot tries to be still and wait for Q settle back into restful sleep. He can pretend to be asleep for Quentin. All morning, if he has to. He has more than enough to think about. 

But then Quentin _ moans, _ and rocks his hips up off the bed. _ “El, oh my god,” _and that… just… no. No one can be expected to have this kind of self-control, and certainly not Eliot. He rolls over to look at Quentin again, lips parted, breathing heavily as he dreams. He’ll have to do this carefully, but he’s doing it.

Eliot slides closer to Quentin and carefully tucks up against his neck. He slips his free arm across his chest to hold him tight, in case he startles when he wakes. Eliot takes a moment to enjoy this, the scent of Quentin’s neck and the feel of his soft hair. Sleeping people cannot consent, and he doesn’t want to be creepy, of course; this is just a quick cuddle. He squeezes Quentin’s hand tighter and rubs his thumb over his knuckles.

“Q,” he says, gently, “Quentin. Sweetheart, wake up.” He stretches his fingers, squeezes his hand again.

Quentin finds Eliot’s arm, across his chest, rubs across it with his free hand. “El?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” Eliot just holds on to him, “I’m here. You asked me to stay, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Quentin sounds happy. He hugs Eliot’s arm to his chest, snuggles a bit into him with his side. “Um, why are we waking up?”

“I think you may have been… dreaming?”

“Oh… oh my god.” Quentin’s whole body stiffens, “El, um, I’m sorry, I…”

“No no no no no no no, it’s ok, Q really,” Eliot interrupts, tightening his arm around Quentin, across the soft cotton of his tee shirt, where his arm has gone tense and his chest tight, trying to soothe him by rubbing his thumb across his knuckles, “I dream about you, too.”

Quentin swallows. “You do?”

“Yes,” Eliot admits, and he’s wildly nervous and this may be very stupid, but fuck it, what better chance could he have? “When I’m awake, and when I’m asleep,” he murmurs into Quentin’s neck. 

Quentin gasps in a breath and holds it. Then “Oh,” he says, clearly surprised. He lets out the breath, and Eliot feels the panicked tension begin to drain from his body. He turns over on his side to face Eliot. Eliot slides his arm to Quentin’s waist, palms the small of his back. Quentin is looking at him with big, soft eyes, so close, then he closes them and presses his forehead to his, breathing.

“Would you like to,” Eliot begins, soft, but then Quentin reaches his free hand up over Eliot’s shoulder, slides it up his neck and into his hair, and pushes in and kisses him. His lips are soft, and the kiss is sweet, with just a bit of heat to it; when Quentin pulls back and ducks his head shyly, his eyes still closed, Eliot follows his mouth and kisses him again. 

IV.

He’s kissing Quentin now and Quentin is kissing him _ back, _ tender and tentative but definitely on purpose. It’s so startling… but everything about Eliot— how he feels, what he wants, his entire body— is just... _going with it. _

Eliot savors the slight burn of Quentin’s stubble against his lips. He feels the lovely, unusual curve of his mouth, and draws his bottom lip gently between his teeth. Quentin lets out a soft moan, and Eliot presses his hand up Quentin’s back and into his hair at the base of his skull, tilts his head just so and deepens the kiss. 

The first touch of Quentin’s tongue to Eliot’s sends a shiver through him. This is so good. This is more than good, kissing _ Quentin_, in Quentin’s bed. 

When Eliot has been here before, it’s always been about comfort, and company, and sort-of… the mutual kindness between them. Never about flirting or seduction: those things are part of _ Eliot’s _ world. Quentin’s room, with all its navy blue and plaid flannel, nautical-looking maps of fantasy worlds on the walls— it feels comfortable to Eliot. Safe. 

Now here he is, and he feels like this ethereal presence, in his silk pajamas; but he’s surrounded by layers of soft, heavy cotton, all of it incredibly grounding, and he’s being kissed by Quentin, who is familiar and solid and wonderfully real. 

They kiss and kiss and _ kiss, _ holding each other’s backs, hands in each other’s hair, and it’s _ phenomenal. _ Quentin lets go of Eliot’s hand and presses his full body up against him, taking hold of his waist. Eliot thrills at the feeling of Quentin’s erection against his stomach, through their pajamas, not far from his own. He kisses Quentin deeply and reaches for his hip, rolling his own hips up to let Quentin feel what he’s done to him. He hears his breath hitch_, _and asks again: “Q, do you want to… ?” 

“Oh my god,” Quentin smiles, breathless, “yes. El, come here.” 

Eliot takes hold of Quentin’s wrist and rolls him over, putting Quentin on his back and fitting himself above him, up on his elbows and knees, caging him in. Quentin looks up at him with a smile that’s both startled and thrilled, like he _ loves _ that. Eliot bends down to kiss him again, looming over him, and Quentin gasps, laughing, and reaches up to begin undoing the buttons on Eliot’s silk pajamas. There are only five, and Eliot kisses Quentin’s throat and sucks at his neck while he gets them undone. Finally, he sits back, straddling Quentin’s hips, and grinds down against him, earning another gasp. 

He grins playfully as he sheds his shirt. There is no mistaking the look of desire in Quentin’s eyes as he takes him in, and how could Eliot not have… figured this out? He reaches for the hem of Quentin’s tee shirt and raises an eyebrow at him questioningly. Q swallows and nods, pushes himself up on his hands and lets Eliot help him out of his shirt. 

Eliot runs his hands down Quentin’s torso, feeling the swell of his pecs and brushing his small, dark nipples with his fingertips. His chest and shoulders are broad and more muscular than one would expect when they’re hidden in those loose hoodies and flannels. He looks good, and Eliot’s eager to touch him, to see the rest of him. He brings his fingers to Quentin’s hipbones, teases over them a little, then hooks them into the waistband of his pajamas. 

“Shall we get all the rest of this off, now?” he asks. 

“Uh-huh,” and Eliot decides that breathless Quentin is _ definitely _ one of his favorite Quentins. 

“Here,” he takes Quentin’s hands gently off of his knees. Hooking one into his own waistband, he drags the other up the front of his pants, gently curling Quentin’s palm and fingers over his own cock through the silk and pressing up the length of it before setting the palm on his hip, “you take these off for me.” Eliot smiles down at Quentin, and he looks a little bit wrecked, just from that. Was it touching him, or being told what to do? 

Quentin nods, and slowly pushes Eliot’s pajama pants down to his knees, where Eliot lifts his legs free. “Good,” Eliot whispers, and Quentin… _ shivers. God._

Eliot leans back down over Quentin and kisses him again, deep and sweet and dirty. He reaches for the waist of Quentin’s pajamas at the back of his hip. “Lift up, sweetheart,” he says. Quentin grins against Eliot’s lips and lifts his hips so Eliot can carefully press his pajamas down and off. 

Hovering over him, Eliot gets a good look. Quentin has a nice little body, compact and muscular, with a soft-looking little trail of light brown hair leading down the line of his lower belly to his thick, very nice-looking cock. That gets an appreciative hum. He can see that Quentin’s blushing, but he also looks like he wants to eat Eliot up. “Beautiful,” he says, and the flush deepens, spreads down Quentin’s chest. 

Quentin’s eyes flash, and his mouth quirks up on one side. “No, you are,” he grins. So. Quentin reaches for Eliot’s face, and then they’re kissing again. 

Eliot loves it, the feeling of their bodies pressed together everywhere, skin sliding against skin, the taste and feel of Quentin’s mouth, the hot little moans that are coming out of him already. 

Eliot is so much taller… so much _ longer _than Quentin, lying down. He presses up the bed to nestle their cocks together, which is so good that it causes them both to gasp. Quentin starts kissing low on his neck as they rock together, and Eliot buries a hand in Quentin’s soft hair and presses his lips to his forehead, feeling the beautiful, soft-hard slide of him and enjoying the attention to the sensitive skin of his collarbones. 

When he sinks down to kiss him again they lose that delicious friction, but Eliot quickly realizes something else: Quentin is the perfect height for him to be able to fuck him and kiss him at the same time. The thought makes his breath hitch in his chest. In any position, it would be absolutely perfect. Maybe not _ now, _ but maybe, _ later? _ The thought that there may be a later, an _ again_, is almost overwhelming. He wants this. _ How did he not know how much he wanted this?_

Eliot is used to wanting sex because it’s fun and it feels good. He’s used to wanting it because his body wants it, and hot guys are hot, and he likes feeling good at it. He is not used to wanting sex because it’s _ Quentin._

While Eliot’s world is tilting, Quentin is groaning into his mouth as they kiss and writhing up against him, his hands tight in his hair. Eliot can feel some wetness where Quentin is very hard and leaking against his stomach. He desperately wants to get his mouth _ all over him_, his hands _ all over him._

He gathers up Quentin’s hands and crosses them at the wrists, lifts them just over his head on the bed and pins them there with one hand. Cupping his cheek, Eliot looks Quentin in they eye and checks, “This ok?” Quentin’s eyes go wide and he nods almost frantically, so Eliot slips down and gently sucks at his throat. He kisses the pivot of his jaw, down the side of his neck, and sucks hard enough to leave a faint mark— Quentin writhes and _ moans— _and Eliot stretches his arm to keep him pinned while he mouths a soft, light brown nipple and sucks it stiff, then rolls it between his lips and laves over it with his tongue before turning his attention to the other nipple. 

Q is now arching up off the bed, incredibly sexy. Eliot takes a moment to just, try to take a mental picture, here— for later— then continues. “Q, can I blow you, please?” 

Quentin is nodding again. He seems to be having trouble forming words, but Eliot raises an eyebrow at him and waits. Quentin laughs, breaking the tension. “Yes. You totally can.” 

So he does. 

He releases Quentin’s wrists as he moves down over his body. “Put your hands in my hair,” and Quentin does, strong fingers sliding behind Eliot’s ears and into his curls. Eliot kisses his belly; sucks on each of his hipbones; holds them down as he presses himself up to sink down, languorous, onto Quentin’s cock. 

Q’s cock is so nice, and Eliot feels like he could get lost in this maybe forever. His jaw stretches around the thickness of him, a good stretch, something he can really feel. His skin is soft against his lips, velvety, and very, very warm. He likes the slight curve of it, and the creamy pink that matches the rest of Quentin. 

Eliot hums loudly as he rolls the head around on his tongue, large and velvety and swollen. He wants Quentin to know how much he enjoys this. Gently sucking, he presses the tip against the roof of his mouth and licks at his frenulum, then rubs his lips around the base of his glans. When he tastes the earthy sharpness of precome on his tongue, his whole body shudders. Eliot moans and takes Q deep into the back of into his mouth. 

Quentin feels wonderful, tastes wonderful. He’s making little gasping moans and rocking a bit, trying not to buck up into Eliot’s mouth, and everything about this is so fucking erotic. Eliot presses his own dick into the bed, trying to get a little relief from how desperately hard this is making him. He’s really applying himself now, taking him in over and over and _ over. _His lips feel hot and swollen, slippery, and he follows them with his tongue, lavishing Quentin’s cock with as much attention as he can. 

Eliot has been smoothing his hands up and down Quentin’s hips and thighs, up his sides. Now he brings them down to firmly stroke his perineum with his thumbs. Quentin lets out a long, crazy-sounding groan and yes, that’s perfect. He wants to make this so good for Q. He backs off and builds up to it again, drawing it out. 

The third time, Eliot doesn’t back off. He pushes Quentin even further, lets his hips rise up off the bed, moans as he sinks down onto him and slides his cock deep into the back of his throat. He swallows around him and draws back to breathe before pulling him back in deep, creating a rhythm with his lips and his tongue and his throat… and… _ yes_. This broken “oh my god, oh my g… _ Eliot…_” _ this _ is what he wants. 

Quentin’s hips are lifting up to meet him, his hands gripping tight in his hair… head thrown back and gasping, breath catching in his chest… and then he’s shuddering and letting out a full-body, half-shouted moan as he curls forward, cock swollen and pulsing and shooting down Eliot’s throat as he sucks him down, grateful, while he comes.

_This this this this_. This is _ exactly what he wants._

Eliot rolls through it with Quentin, draws his orgasm out as long as he can, then holds him softly in his mouth for a few moments, humming his approval, before gently pulling away. He feels him still shaking with the aftershocks of it, trying to catch his breath, and he climbs up the bed and wraps himself around him. 

Quentin looks at him, a bit frantic, tipping his chin up like he desperately needs to be kissed, and maybe he does. Eliot kisses him and he relaxes immediately, sinking into kissing like it’s his first language, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s back. 

They kiss for a _ while, _ for a long time, really. Eliot wants to give Q exactly what he wants, and Q obviously wants to be very thoroughly kissed. 

He’s so turned on, and this is fantastic, honestly. Quentin catches him completely off guard when he breaks the kiss and laughs, and says, like this is a thing that someone would just say: “That was my favorite blow job I’ve ever received.” Eliot thinks, a bit manic, but doesn’t say, that that was probably his favorite blow job that he’s ever given. Instead he says, “Mmmm, I’m glad,” and smiles, and kisses him again. 

Quentin hums through the kiss, then reaches down between Eliot’s legs and takes hold of the base of his cock. Eliot pulls in a deep, sharp breath, then tries to keep his breathing slow as he gets used to the sensation— fantastic but almost too much, given how hard he is. He looks down at Q, and sees his eyes close and his mouth drop open, like he’s blissed out just from the experience of touching Eliot’s cock. Oh? he thinks, a bit shocked. This is still all so, so surprising. 

Quentin thumbs Eliot’s slit and rubs precome over the head, and it feels so exquisite, being touched by him. Eliot leans on his arm and lets his eyes fall shut, smiling and enjoying the wonderful feeling of his broad, masculine hand wrapped around him. 

This is just fucking _ fantastic_, and he’s totally, totally down for it, waves of pleasure gently rolling through him. He manages to settle his hand on Quentin’s chest without it getting in the way, and is beginning to slip toward lying down when Quentin asks, “um, can I suck you, too?” 

The answer to that question is virtually never “no,” as a rule, but still Eliot feels the need to look at him and ask, “Is that something you want?” 

Quentin actually rolls his eyes, but he smiles, somewhat indulgent. “Yes. Vehemently.” 

“Mmmhmm, ok, yes.” 

Quentin spends a few minutes kissing Eliot’s nipples, which is honestly wonderful, then rubs his hands, heavy and strong, down his body and settles between his legs. 

The way that Quentin sucks dick, it turns out, is fucking _ delightful. _ He’s eager, and sloppy, and clearly so hot for this. He nuzzles and licks and kisses and hums, responding to every little sound or movement Eliot makes, and when he pulls Eliot’s cock into his mouth Quentin makes a noise that frankly sounds like he might come again, just from this. 

It feels so, so good. His mouth is warm and wet and soft. He has some technique, but it’s really mostly enthusiasm that is the star of the show. 

Quentin can’t take Eliot’s cock in all the way, which Eliot expects, given his size, but he does a superb job with his hand slicked up around the base, working him with a long, slow rhythm with hollowed out cheeks, and this thing he’s got going on with his tongue… Eliot feels so kinetic… nearly liquid, like his whole body is swimming in beautiful sensation, like the waves of it are all around him… rolling the mattress beneath him… covering Quentin, held between his thighs. He moans, in part to let Quentin hear him, and in part to just check that he’s actually still in his body, and capable of making sounds. 

Eliot digs his fingernails into the sheets, and presses the flats of his feet into the mattress, reaching for the grounding feeling of the flannel bedding under him. This doesn’t last long, however, because Quentin relaxes his throat and begins to take Eliot in deeper, moaning as he goes. Those sounds he’s making are so _ erotic_, they take Eliot right back to the very fresh body memory of Quentin’s cock in _ his _ throat, of Quentin coming for him, and Eliot. He just feels wrecked, by this. 

He can barely register his surprise. What Quentin is doing to his cock now is insanely good, and his nerves are beginning to feel electric, through his whole body. He suddenly, desperately needs to hold on to him, to feel as much connection with him as he can. Eliot grabs on to Quentin’s shoulders, and somehow Q seems to know, because he reaches his arms fully up and lets Eliot grasp his forearms, holding him back with a tight grip like he’s going to keep him from falling off a precipice. 

Suddenly, Quentin picks up his pace and Eliot starts to shudder, his breath catching in his chest, his hips arching up off the bed and he can’t keep them from jerking a little bit but Q just groans like this is his favorite thing in the world, like he can’t fucking _ wait. _Eliot’s eyes are closed and his entire body feels intensely bright, and the incredible pleasure between his legs is beginning to crest, rising sharper and stronger and higher, filling him and then— he can’t breathe, it’s too intense— shattering explosively, coursing through practically his whole body in strong waves as his head falls back and his throat lets go with a keening moan, as his muscles all tighten and Quentin holds tight to his arms and just takes him in. 

It just seems to go on and on, and somewhere in the slowly descending arc, the waves becoming gentler and slower but still fucking intense, the bed feels like it does a strange kind of jump beneath them. Quentin is just holding Eliot in his mouth now, humming a little and smiling. Eliot waits until the orgasm seems to finally still, and lets go of his arm, sliding his hand to cup his jaw, rubbing along it with his thumb. 

“Come up here?” he asks. 

Q smiles and nods. He gently pulls off of Eliot’s sensitive, softening cock, and presses a sweet kiss to it before scooting up the bed and leaning on his elbow, tight against Eliot’s side. Eliot realizes that he would _ very much _like to kiss Quentin right now, so he reaches for his head and carefully pulls him down into a warm, slow kiss. 

This kiss feels like the most tender and intimate yet, and if Eliot didn’t already feel cracked open, well… 

When they part lips, Quentin ducks his forehead down onto Eliot’s shoulder. He laughs softly. “So, that was a first,” he begins. 

“Don’t expect me to believe that was your first time giving a blow job,” Eliot laughs warmly, incredulous, “no one is _ that _ much of a natural.” 

“Oh no,” Quentin replies, “definitely not. I meant, um, it was my first time _ levitating _ during a blow job.” 

Eliot’s just, blanks out, for a second. “Did we… we were… are you sure?” His arms tighten instinctively around Quentin. 

“Oh yeah,” and now Quentin is shaking slightly, and Eliot realizes he’s trying not to giggle, “a good six inches or so, for about… four minutes, probably? I kind of loved it. Well, I mean, I was already _ really happy…_” 

Eliot tips Quentin’s chin up with his fingertips and kisses him again. “Me, too,” he says gently. He’s filled with endorphins and soft, lovely sensations, and while he might be a bit shocked by this, it’s really not more surprising than anything else tonight. He feels relaxed and right, and has no intention of letting go of this beautiful man in his arms any time soon. Quentin doesn’t seem to mind, so Eliot reaches a long arm around until he locates the comforter, and pulls it over them both. 

“Is that… not usual, for you?” 

“No,” Eliot admits, deciding to just be honest with Q, “you must have brought it out in me.” 

Quentin just hums and curls up half on top of Eliot, nuzzling into his chest. 

“Mmmmm. El, you think you can sleep?” 

“I think so,” says Eliot. He’s pretty sure he can, feels the pull of it in his body already, but he can also feel that Q is half-hard again, pressed against his hip. “Is that what you want, right now?” 

“Yeah,” says Quentin. He does sound sleepy. “For now.” Eliot thinks he can hear the smile in his voice. Quentin turns his head downward briefly and kisses the center of Eliot’s chest, then settles back on him, solid and quiet, and Eliot wonders whether Quentin notices his heart beating a little faster. 

He just… holds on to Q, draped over his chest. Feels him breathing, how warm he is. His soft hair. The weight of him, holding Eliot down to the bed, in his body. He lets it hold him in the present, just feeling this, so strange and so good, as he settles into sleep.

V.

The light is brighter in the room when Eliot begins to wake, but he keeps his eyes closed for a moment, pulling in a slow, deep, sleepy breath, in case Q is already awake beside him. They’re lying close together, shoulders touching and their legs tangled up, and they’re holding hands again. 

Last night was… it was… it was wonderful, honestly. Eliot doesn’t want it to be over. He swallows around the thought that he has no idea how to proceed, here; his previous experience has not nearly prepared him for this. 

Ordinarily at this point, Eliot would be about to usher an overnight visitor out of his room, usually in good spirits and always entirely clear on the casualness of their encounter. There would probably be a hangover involved, which he and Margo would nurse away as decadently as possible after their visitors had gone home (although Margo’s hookups didn’t often get to sleep over— well, the women, sometimes.) Normally, he would _ not _ be desperately hoping he’d be able to kiss the guy again, wanting to hold him and smell his hair, wondering if he’d have time to make him breakfast… 

_Oh._

Eliot feels entirely on the back foot. He swallows as he realizes. Quentin may not want… more than just. What that was. This one time. He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t _ presume, _ should he? God, he hopes their friendship will be okay. He hopes he’ll still be able to _ touch _ him. 

Maybe he’s breathing a little weird, or it’s possible he might have squeezed Q’s hand kind of accidentally tightly, because “Hey,” says Quentin, and Eliot decides that he really can’t avoid looking now, can he? He opens his eyes to the brighter light of early-morning, the more saturated, warmer colors, and turns to look at him. 

Quentin hasn’t pulled his hand away, or moved his leg, and he’s smiling at him shyly, a gentle little grin, and his soft brown eyes look bright and… oh is that _ happy? _ Eliot can’t _ not _ be cautious, here, but he feels this little spark, this _ hope? _He gives him a warm, sleepy smile. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, and carefully squeezes his hand. 

Quentin’s thumb gently rubs up and down the center of Eliot’s palm, like a question; Eliot realizes, madly, that whatever Quentin may be offering, he almost certainly wants it. He rolls his fingers around Q’s, and presses his own thumb into his hand, with a kind of desperate gentleness. He doesn’t feel like he can speak. 

Quentin maybe senses something, in Eliot, because he rolls toward him then, and leans in closer. His smile takes on the quality of a slight smirk. 

“So. Levitating,” he begins. 

“Apparently so,” Eliot replies. 

“I didn’t even know you liked me.” His eyes crinkle with humor, but Eliot can tell there’s… something vulnerable, underneath. His heart skips. 

He tries for a relaxed, humorous tone— isn’t sure he quite pulls it off— when he replies: “I do. A lot. I… didn’t even know you liked guys.” 

Quentin smiles but then his mouth does something complicated, like he… regrets something? Is frustrated? He sighs a little. “I’m sorry. I um… kind of forget, to come out? I’m bi but, um, who I’m attracted to isn’t usually super relevant… um, to my life. It’s just, like, background information.” 

Oh, that’s _sad_, but also_ so_ strange, and Eliot, for whom his queerness has been probably _the_ defining factor of his life (and not in a pleasant way for most of it,) decides by force of will to just skip over, for the moment, the many, many ways that he can’t relate to what Quentin has just said. 

“It’s okay,” he says instead, and reaches over with his free hand, smoothing it up Quentin’s arm to rest on his shoulder. Quentin leans into the touch, as Eliot turns on his side to face him. “I’m glad I know now, though. I feel like it might be… relevant?” 

At that Quentin looks up and meets Eliot’s eyes again, that warm walnut brown, beautiful in the rising light. His jaw sets and he looks right at Eliot as he asks, “Can I kiss you?” 

And Quentin is just _so brave_, and Eliot’s a bit in awe of him because Eliot always runs, before anything feels this intense, or this intimate, and nothing has ever felt this… important, before, with a guy, really. But this isn’t just a guy, this is _ Q, _and Eliot makes a split-second decision to let some of Quentin’s bravery just... rub off on him, if he can. 

He smiles softly at Quentin and feels more vulnerable than he has possibly in years when he says, “Yes, please, but um, I’m also hoping… will I get to kiss you again, later?” 

“Later?” 

“Yes. Like, can I make you breakfast before you go to class… and kiss you then?” 

Quentin’s eyes go a little wide, then he smiles softly and looks down. Oh wow, is he blushing? He _ is _ blushing, and he asks, “Even if there are people there?” 

Eliot tips his chin up with a finger and catches his eyes. “I don’t mind if there are people. I think I’d like it if I got to kiss you where there were people.” 

At this, Quentin cups the side of Eliot’s head and leans in and kisses him. It’s sweet and tender, and Q breaks the kiss after a moment and pulls back slightly, just enough to ask, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Eliot breathes. He means it; he just _ hopes_. “Do you think you’d… would you like that?” 

Quentin kisses him again, which feels like a very good sign, so Eliot continues: “Or maybe, um, on walks…” 

Q kisses him, and Eliot can’t stop asking: “Or, or under that big tree on the lawn…” 

Quentin’s hand slides back into Eliot’s hair as he kisses him, but he continues: “…at the party on Saturday, maybe…” 

Quentin gives him a very long, lovely kiss, and Eliot is feeling braver by the moment, here: “In my room, for sure…” 

Quentin’s hands are deep in his hair now, and Eliot has to break this kiss to ask: “And, I hope, here again?” 

Oh god, they’re so naked, he can feel his chest, his hips…“If you want me?” 

Quentin has rolled him on his back and is _ on top of him, _ now, and kisses him again before Eliot finally finishes his question: “To come back?” 

Eliot gasps as Quentin sucks on his neck, then leans up on top of him. 

“Yes,” Q says, and he’s shining in the sun right above him. He’s gorgeous, and happy, and Eliot feels a broad sweep of affection that he lets wash over him. Eliot wants to see him look like this _ all the time. _

Quentin continues, “I would like that, and I _do_ want you…” and he lowers himself down on top of Eliot again and kisses him deeply, opening and yielding and _taking,_ biting Eliot’s lip and moving against his tongue, “to come back.” 

Eliot doesn’t quite notice, kissing Quentin back with everything he’s got, when he starts to laugh. “Yeah?” he asks, happiness escaping from where it’s bubbling up in his chest. 

“Yes,” Quentin replies.

Eliot wraps his arms around him. He feels him smile against his lips, and the sun warming his skin, and holds him tight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Adjovi for betaing this story and putting up with how neurotic I get, and to lunaraindrop and somegoldcanstay for their enthusiasm, kindness, and feedback.
> 
> About the ellipses... I know, I know, but talking about feelings is _hard,_ y'all. A boy may need a long pause. Or thirty.


End file.
